RodentRevolution
Banned
I think this wins the prize for your best post ever.
So Snowy has faked his own death or is there some McCavity lurking in the shadows?
The Blue Lotus, a "Fight and be Right" short story
- Thread starter EdT
- Start date
I think this wins the prize for your best post ever.
So Snowy has faked his own death or is there some McCavity lurking in the shadows?
Two
****
Everyone in Shanghai knew the Blue Lotus; if the city was the “Paris of the Orient” some claimed it to be, than the club was its Moulin Rouge. Even in the driving rain, the huge neon construction that adorned the club’s roof could be seen from across the city, bathing the street outside in an eerie cerulean glow. The Inspector hated the colour; he had seen enough times the way that it made freshly spilt blood look black. Acknowledging the massive doormen with a curt nod- both of them were wanted murderers in China, but one of them was an occasionally useful informant- he strode past through the gilded foyer and stood at the entrance to the main dance hall.
The room was huge; the size of a football field, stylishly decorated in grey silk and lacquered wood, filled with tables around which pretty European waitresses constantly fussed. At the far end a massive lotus flower, studded with sapphires and lapis lazuli (or so the proprietor claimed) adorned the wall. On stage, an attractive blonde dressed in the latest Peking style was engaged in an elaborate dance routine with a group of Chinese girls.
"Yi wang si-i wa ye kan duo…”
“Inspector!” a voice cried, and he turned to see the proprietor, a balding, perpetually harassed-looking man, rushing over to him. “What a pleasure to see you! You are most welcome.”
The Inspector gave a wry smile. “Evening, René. Bought any sausages recently?”
René blanched. “I’m just a humble businessman trying to make an honest living, Inspector. I bought those knackwurst in good faith; How was I meant to know what was hidden inside?” He frantically beckoned over a giggling waitress. “Wine! Wine for the Inspector!”
The Frenchman followed the Inspector’s gaze towards the chanteuse, and rolled his eyes. “I know, I know, her Mandarin is terrible,” he said, “but the alternative is my wife’s singing- and my business cannot take a repeat performance of that. But what can I do for you this evening? Let me show you to a table.”
The Inspector shook his head. “I’m looking for someone,” he said, glancing at his wristwatch. “They’ll have arrived for 11; probably on their own but with a table for two, seated somewhere discreet. They’ll be waiting for somebody and wondering where they’ve got to.”
René grimaced. “You’re not going to arrest him are you? I don’t want trouble. I’ve enough of that as it is.”
“No arrests. I just want to talk.”
The Frenchman brightened. “He’s the Chinaman over in the far left corner; he keeps looking at his watch. I’ll send the wine over. On the house, of course.”
The Inspector glanced over to the table’s occupant and lit himself another cigarette. “Better make it two glasses, René; he’s an old friend.”
“Oh ‘eck.”
Puffing on his cigarette, the Inspector strode across the hall, approached the corner booth, and casually sat down. The other occupant turned to remonstrate with him- then recognition dawned in his face and his lips pursed in irritation.
The Inspector grinned savagely, and gestured over his shoulder. “He’s not coming, Peng. And what are you doing in my damn town, anyhow? China’s that way. Go back to your own jurisdiction and police that.”
Peng Te-huai rolled his eyes. “We’re in still China now actually,” he remarked sourly, “just an occupied part. And while my jurisdiction ends at the Soochow Creek, the interests of the Guangxu Emperor most definitely do not.” He paused. “What do you mean, he’s not coming?”
“Your dinner date? The ‘journalist?’ We found him a few hours ago, shot dead. Professional-style. You shouldn’t be mixing with French intelligence now, should you Peng?”
The Chinese policeman muttered a curse. “That’s a shame. Deuxième Bureau though? Don’t make me laugh, you didn’t meet the boy. Far too idealistic to be a spy. He was what he said he was, I think; a journalist, and one who was in way over his head.”
The Inspector sucked on his cigarette, thoughtfully. “He had information for you?”
Peng shrugged. “I think so. He said he’d been to the docks, and had found something I might want to know. I wanted to show him something in turn. He was interested in an Englishman; I am interested in a certain Wuhan ‘businessman’. And look- here they are, meeting.” He inclined his head towards one of the central tables; three men were lounging around there, apparently playing cards.
“The Oriental is Lao Ché; he is a senior figure in Wo Hop To, one of the Hubei Triads. You will recognise the Europeans, I assume?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be doing my damn job,” the Inspector growled. “The bald one with the glasses who the waitresses are keeping a distance from? That’s Beria, the Russian consul. Nasty bastard; one of these days an angry husband or father will fill him with hot lead, and before I arrest them, I’ll buy ‘em a drink. The one with the Martini is the English naval attaché, Commander Fleming. He’s new to Shanghai- took over a few months ago- but he’s already made an impression. Gambles like a sailor, and drinks like a fish. I heard that he was laughed out of his last posting in Batavia when he proposed bankrupting the German Consular staff by challenging them to a card game.”
Peng looked thoughtful. “A man who gambles so much may owe money to unsavoury individuals. The boy told me that he had heard Fleming’s name used in connection with a criminal smuggling ring in India; and here he is meeting with Wo Hop To’s 438-“
The Inspector looked up, sharply, and began to rummage in his pocket. “438?”
“Triad ranks have numerical code corresponding to the I Ching,” Peng explained. “438 denotes the ‘grass slipper’; the master’s deputy and proxy.”
Extracting the scrap of paper he had found in the dead man’s hand, the Inspector passed it to his colleague. “The boy had the number 438 written on a piece of paper. He must have known about the meeting too- but what does this word mean?”
“E-N-E-Y-E,” Peng muttered, thinking. “Part of a larger word?”
The Inspector nodded. “I think so, although it could be a name; I once knew a negro in Douglass called Eneye.”
Across the room, the card game appeared to be over. The Russian had already made for the exit; Lao Ché was about to follow, when Fleming unsteadily got to his feet and raised his glass. He said something; the Chinese glared at him sharply, and then strode away, shaking his head in irritation. The Policemen looked at each other, and called over the waitress.
The Inspector lazily opened his jacket to display his warrant badge. “What did the drunk Englishman just say to the Chink over there?” he asked, stubbing his cigarette out in the table’s ashtray.
The waitress tittered. “Oh, nothing much sir,” she said, glancing back to where Fleming had resumed his seat and was calling for another drink, “he just proposed a toast. The Chinaman called him a drunken fool and walked off; I’m surprised he can stand really, he is on his eighth Vodka Martini…”
Peng rolled his eyes. “We can see that,” he said, “but what was the toast?”
The waitress shrugged. “It was a silly word. ‘Goldeneye’, that was it! He said, ‘to Goldeneye’. I don’t know why the Chinaman was so angry...”
The Inspector grunted, pleased. “I think I do. Come on Peng, let me take you back to the station. We have some detective work to do.”
****
Everyone in Shanghai knew the Blue Lotus; if the city was the “Paris of the Orient” some claimed it to be, than the club was its Moulin Rouge. Even in the driving rain, the huge neon construction that adorned the club’s roof could be seen from across the city, bathing the street outside in an eerie cerulean glow. The Inspector hated the colour; he had seen enough times the way that it made freshly spilt blood look black. Acknowledging the massive doormen with a curt nod- both of them were wanted murderers in China, but one of them was an occasionally useful informant- he strode past through the gilded foyer and stood at the entrance to the main dance hall.
The room was huge; the size of a football field, stylishly decorated in grey silk and lacquered wood, filled with tables around which pretty European waitresses constantly fussed. At the far end a massive lotus flower, studded with sapphires and lapis lazuli (or so the proprietor claimed) adorned the wall. On stage, an attractive blonde dressed in the latest Peking style was engaged in an elaborate dance routine with a group of Chinese girls.
"Yi wang si-i wa ye kan duo…”
“Inspector!” a voice cried, and he turned to see the proprietor, a balding, perpetually harassed-looking man, rushing over to him. “What a pleasure to see you! You are most welcome.”
The Inspector gave a wry smile. “Evening, René. Bought any sausages recently?”
René blanched. “I’m just a humble businessman trying to make an honest living, Inspector. I bought those knackwurst in good faith; How was I meant to know what was hidden inside?” He frantically beckoned over a giggling waitress. “Wine! Wine for the Inspector!”
The Frenchman followed the Inspector’s gaze towards the chanteuse, and rolled his eyes. “I know, I know, her Mandarin is terrible,” he said, “but the alternative is my wife’s singing- and my business cannot take a repeat performance of that. But what can I do for you this evening? Let me show you to a table.”
The Inspector shook his head. “I’m looking for someone,” he said, glancing at his wristwatch. “They’ll have arrived for 11; probably on their own but with a table for two, seated somewhere discreet. They’ll be waiting for somebody and wondering where they’ve got to.”
René grimaced. “You’re not going to arrest him are you? I don’t want trouble. I’ve enough of that as it is.”
“No arrests. I just want to talk.”
The Frenchman brightened. “He’s the Chinaman over in the far left corner; he keeps looking at his watch. I’ll send the wine over. On the house, of course.”
The Inspector glanced over to the table’s occupant and lit himself another cigarette. “Better make it two glasses, René; he’s an old friend.”
“Oh ‘eck.”
Puffing on his cigarette, the Inspector strode across the hall, approached the corner booth, and casually sat down. The other occupant turned to remonstrate with him- then recognition dawned in his face and his lips pursed in irritation.
The Inspector grinned savagely, and gestured over his shoulder. “He’s not coming, Peng. And what are you doing in my damn town, anyhow? China’s that way. Go back to your own jurisdiction and police that.”
Peng Te-huai rolled his eyes. “We’re in still China now actually,” he remarked sourly, “just an occupied part. And while my jurisdiction ends at the Soochow Creek, the interests of the Guangxu Emperor most definitely do not.” He paused. “What do you mean, he’s not coming?”
“Your dinner date? The ‘journalist?’ We found him a few hours ago, shot dead. Professional-style. You shouldn’t be mixing with French intelligence now, should you Peng?”
The Chinese policeman muttered a curse. “That’s a shame. Deuxième Bureau though? Don’t make me laugh, you didn’t meet the boy. Far too idealistic to be a spy. He was what he said he was, I think; a journalist, and one who was in way over his head.”
The Inspector sucked on his cigarette, thoughtfully. “He had information for you?”
Peng shrugged. “I think so. He said he’d been to the docks, and had found something I might want to know. I wanted to show him something in turn. He was interested in an Englishman; I am interested in a certain Wuhan ‘businessman’. And look- here they are, meeting.” He inclined his head towards one of the central tables; three men were lounging around there, apparently playing cards.
“The Oriental is Lao Ché; he is a senior figure in Wo Hop To, one of the Hubei Triads. You will recognise the Europeans, I assume?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be doing my damn job,” the Inspector growled. “The bald one with the glasses who the waitresses are keeping a distance from? That’s Beria, the Russian consul. Nasty bastard; one of these days an angry husband or father will fill him with hot lead, and before I arrest them, I’ll buy ‘em a drink. The one with the Martini is the English naval attaché, Commander Fleming. He’s new to Shanghai- took over a few months ago- but he’s already made an impression. Gambles like a sailor, and drinks like a fish. I heard that he was laughed out of his last posting in Batavia when he proposed bankrupting the German Consular staff by challenging them to a card game.”
Peng looked thoughtful. “A man who gambles so much may owe money to unsavoury individuals. The boy told me that he had heard Fleming’s name used in connection with a criminal smuggling ring in India; and here he is meeting with Wo Hop To’s 438-“
The Inspector looked up, sharply, and began to rummage in his pocket. “438?”
“Triad ranks have numerical code corresponding to the I Ching,” Peng explained. “438 denotes the ‘grass slipper’; the master’s deputy and proxy.”
Extracting the scrap of paper he had found in the dead man’s hand, the Inspector passed it to his colleague. “The boy had the number 438 written on a piece of paper. He must have known about the meeting too- but what does this word mean?”
“E-N-E-Y-E,” Peng muttered, thinking. “Part of a larger word?”
The Inspector nodded. “I think so, although it could be a name; I once knew a negro in Douglass called Eneye.”
Across the room, the card game appeared to be over. The Russian had already made for the exit; Lao Ché was about to follow, when Fleming unsteadily got to his feet and raised his glass. He said something; the Chinese glared at him sharply, and then strode away, shaking his head in irritation. The Policemen looked at each other, and called over the waitress.
The Inspector lazily opened his jacket to display his warrant badge. “What did the drunk Englishman just say to the Chink over there?” he asked, stubbing his cigarette out in the table’s ashtray.
The waitress tittered. “Oh, nothing much sir,” she said, glancing back to where Fleming had resumed his seat and was calling for another drink, “he just proposed a toast. The Chinaman called him a drunken fool and walked off; I’m surprised he can stand really, he is on his eighth Vodka Martini…”
Peng rolled his eyes. “We can see that,” he said, “but what was the toast?”
The waitress shrugged. “It was a silly word. ‘Goldeneye’, that was it! He said, ‘to Goldeneye’. I don’t know why the Chinaman was so angry...”
The Inspector grunted, pleased. “I think I do. Come on Peng, let me take you back to the station. We have some detective work to do.”
RodentRevolution
Banned
Oh bravo EdT scandalously over the top and yet carried off with such aplomb one can but stand and applaud in admiration, sadly much of the effect is wasted being alone in my study but anyway well done, well done indeed
I don't think that's what he meant - read the second part over again.
It used to run on PBS back in the 80s and 90s. May still for all I know, but that's where I got to know it.
TFSmith121
Banned
Something of a backhanded compliment...
Something of a backhanded compliment, but thanks, I guess.
Faked death ... The corpse is actually that of a Scotch terrier who died of acute lead poisoning. Operation Mincekibble.
Best,
Something of a backhanded compliment, but thanks, I guess.
Faked death ... The corpse is actually that of a Scotch terrier who died of acute lead poisoning. Operation Mincekibble.
Best,
Glad people are enjoying this! I have ideas for a few more that might pop up now and again.
I'll quite happily take both!
Quite possibly- I almost removed the phrase about the Knackwurst. Still, could be worse; at one point Fairfax and Carstairs were going to appear.
Anyhow, on to the concluding part....
I'll quite happily take both!
Quite possibly- I almost removed the phrase about the Knackwurst. Still, could be worse; at one point Fairfax and Carstairs were going to appear.
Anyhow, on to the concluding part....
Three
In daytime hours, the Hongkew Wharf would have been a bustling hub of activity; in the pre-dawn half-light, it was shuttered and deserted. The Inspector gazed out over the muddy waters of the Whangpo; the gloom had lifted just enough for him to make out the Pootung airfield and the bulk of L'Ardeche, the French dirigible hired by the Red Cross to deliver humanitarian supplies to the Manchurian warzone. It had been painted a brilliant white to denote its neutral status; though given the reports of the increasingly savage struggle taking place among the ruins of Mukden, it was an open question as to whether it would make it that far north without attack. The rain had petered off to a desultory drizzle now at least, but this was little comfort; if the sky cleared, the Japanese bombers would take the opportunity to start hitting the other side of the river again.
Finally, collecting himself, he turned to his little raiding party. He’d wanted the Reserve Unit, with their heavy weaponry and specialist skills, but they were tied up dealing with a bank job in Tsau-Nai-Pang; instead, he’d had to scrape up the few men he could find at the station. They were a motley bunch, Sergeant Williams, a few Chinese, a Sikh and an Indian, all strapped into the bulky bullet-proof vests recently issued to the force. Williams hefted a Jimmy gun in one beefy hand, and a large fire-axe in the other; meeting the Inspector’s gaze, the Welshman shrugged. “Not standard, but it’s helped before”, he remarked.
The warehouse was just like literally thousands of others on both sides of the river; a squat thing, constructed of filthy crumbling brick, nondescript in every way save the badly painted, soot-stained sign that adorned the office entrance; Goldeneye Shipping Company Ltd.
“Are you sure about this?” Peng Te-huai asked; the Chinese policeman had refused all offers of equipment, content with the little Luger he used in regular service.
The Inspector nodded. “It’s the only candidate”, he rasped, lighting a new cigarette, “and do you have any other leads?”
It hadn’t taken them long to find the place once they knew what they were looking for. The Goldeneye Shipping Company had been registered in the name of a man with known triad connections a few months earlier, around the same time as Fleming’s arrival in Shanghai; a bewildered informant had been roused from a drunken stupor to relate that the place saw no activity at all, save a single weekly delivery, taking place at night. The last one of these had taken place three days earlier.
The Inspector approached the door, pulling his Colt from its holster. “Ready?” he growled; the others nodded. He tried the handle, finding it unlocked, to his surprise. “We may have occupation,” he hissed, “So we’ll go in quiet.”
The door opened, mercifully without squeaking hinges, into a low hallway. Pointing, the Inspector sent Williams and some of his men up the stairs to the office; he and Peng moved forward into the main storage area. It was mostly empty, save for stack of boxes in the centre. The two men moved to examine them more closely; they were wooden, sturdily built, quite large but entirely featureless with no clue as to their contents.
“Coffins?” Peng asked. The Inspector sucked on his cigarette.
“They’d certainly fit a man. Shall we open one?”
A slightly slurred voice came from behind them. “If you do, you’ll be causing a serious diplomatic incident.”
The two policemen whirled round; Fleming was standing in the doorway pointing a pistol- a Walther, the Inspector noticed- at them. He was flushed and swaying slightly, but the gun never wavered.
“You can drop the guns too, by the way.”
The two men carefully placed their pistols on the floor. “Fleming? How are you still standing?”
The Englishman ignored the question, jerking his gun to the left. “You will get away from those boxes immediately.” He giggled. “In fact, I expect a full apology, Inspector, in writing; you’re tampering with the Diplomatic Bag. If you’re lucky, the Commissioner might let you keep your job.”
He paused, looking at Peng. “I know him, but who are you?” he demanded. Peng returned the gaze, contemptuously.
“Inspector Peng Te-huai, Jiangsu Police, Commander Fleming. I’ve been pursuing your friend Lao Ché.”
Fleming cocked his head. “What a stroke of luck! Lao’s been after you for a while. You do realise what indignities he would inflict on you, were he to catch you?”
Peng laughed. “It’s over, Fleming. Do you expect me to be intimidated?”
Fleming shrugged. “No, I expect you to die.”
He fired, once; Peng jerked backwards, gasping, clutching his chest. Fleming barked a laugh that turned halfway into a hiccup, dropped his gun to the floor and casually raised his hands. “Now that’s done I surrender, old cock,” he said, swaying slightly.
The Inspector scrabbled for his gun and raised it, checking Peng’s pulse with his other hand. He cursed and stood, looking the other man in the eye. Suddenly the empty warehouse was full of shouting as the other members of the raiding team streamed in, drawn by the shot. It didn't matter now; he knew that the time for fighting was over.
“Commander Fleming, I'm arresting you on two counts of murder.”
The Englishman sniggered. “What, the chink? There's a war on. That’s military action, not murder. Who’s the other?”
The Inspector’s hand tightened on his pistol. “You damn well know the other. The Belgian boy who discovered the scam you were running. I bet, when we dig the bullets out of him, that they’ll come from a Walther like yours.” He indicated the boxes. “He found out about the drugs, didn’t he?”
Fleming pursed his lips. “Foolish lad. You can’t blame me there; I offered him a truly extortionate amount of cash to keep quiet, but he wouldn’t take it. Bloody do-gooder.”
The Inspector grimaced, trying to keep his eyes on the Englishman and not glance down at the corpse beside him. “I bet there’s enough opium in there to supply half of the Yangtze basin.”
“Opium?” Fleming began to laugh. “This is the 1930s Inspector, not the 1830s! Do I look like an East Indiaman? The principle is the same I’ll grant you, but the methods have moved on. No, far more efficient to provide Lao Ché with the concentrated stuff- every chest contains 66 pounds of pure heroin. A bargain at the price.”
The remark brought a bitter laugh. “A pretty low price, Fleming; but I suppose a man’s got to cover his gambling debts somehow. You might have pull in Shanghai, but your Foreign Office won't view you as kindly.”
To the Inspector’s surprise, the Englishman began to laugh- not mockingly, but in genuine, bewildered astonishment.
“I’m not a freelancer, you bloody idiot,” he said, once recovered, “what the hell do you take me for? This is an official operation! The drugs come in from Singapore in the diplomatic bag; we grow tonnes of the stuff in Bengal and Bihar to help the war effort. Lao Ché doesn’t give me a penny! The price isn’t cash; it’s warm bodies.”
He studied the Inspector’s surprised expression. “Don’t you see? There’s a war on! The Tongs practically run the internment camps; for every chest of heroin that goes in, we get a prisoner of war smuggled out. It’s an underground railroad, inspector, and I’m just the middleman; although,” he thrust his chest out, preening, “I did come up with the idea. Operation Goldeneye has been a great success; and it'll take more than your meddling to put it out of commission.”
The Inspector struggled to contain his anger. “It doesn’t matter, Fleming. I don’t care. You’ve goddamn blood on your hands. You’re going down for this. I’ll make sure of it.”
Fleming shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere, Inspector. What do you have? Your testimony? That’s it. The boxes are consular property and so inadmissible, and Commissioner Dawson is formerly of the Metropolitan Police. His priorities are in line with my own. And even if I do get prosecuted, over the wishes of the Commissioner, what then? Who cares about some chink policeman? You bloody Yanks might be neutral, but we’re at war with them, remember? This is Shanghai, and I have extraterritorial rights. I’ll be tried by a Consular Court, and my own people aren’t going to convict me, are they? I’m more likely to get a medal for eliminating the only threat to the Chinese side of the operation.”
He grinned again, smugly. “Seems to me that the worst outcome would be me having a nice furlough in Singapore or Calcutta until the whole mess dies down. I doubt even that- I’ll have plenty more opportunities to play cards in the Blue Lotus yet.”
Fleming knelt to pick up his pistol. Nobody moved to stop him. “I’ll be going then. You can let yourself out.” He turned and called over his shoulder as he walked; “And I meant it about the apology letter, Inspector. On my desk by Midday please.”
The Inspector watched the Englishman go, then glanced down at the body of Peng. Slowly, with a shaking hand, he raised his pistol at Fleming’s back; then sighing, he lowered it again. “Goddamn, spies” he breathed, and turned away, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands.
The brawny arm of Sergeant Williams clasped him on the shoulder, offering comfort. “Forget it Bogey,” the Welshman said kindly, “It’s Shanghai."
In daytime hours, the Hongkew Wharf would have been a bustling hub of activity; in the pre-dawn half-light, it was shuttered and deserted. The Inspector gazed out over the muddy waters of the Whangpo; the gloom had lifted just enough for him to make out the Pootung airfield and the bulk of L'Ardeche, the French dirigible hired by the Red Cross to deliver humanitarian supplies to the Manchurian warzone. It had been painted a brilliant white to denote its neutral status; though given the reports of the increasingly savage struggle taking place among the ruins of Mukden, it was an open question as to whether it would make it that far north without attack. The rain had petered off to a desultory drizzle now at least, but this was little comfort; if the sky cleared, the Japanese bombers would take the opportunity to start hitting the other side of the river again.
Finally, collecting himself, he turned to his little raiding party. He’d wanted the Reserve Unit, with their heavy weaponry and specialist skills, but they were tied up dealing with a bank job in Tsau-Nai-Pang; instead, he’d had to scrape up the few men he could find at the station. They were a motley bunch, Sergeant Williams, a few Chinese, a Sikh and an Indian, all strapped into the bulky bullet-proof vests recently issued to the force. Williams hefted a Jimmy gun in one beefy hand, and a large fire-axe in the other; meeting the Inspector’s gaze, the Welshman shrugged. “Not standard, but it’s helped before”, he remarked.
The warehouse was just like literally thousands of others on both sides of the river; a squat thing, constructed of filthy crumbling brick, nondescript in every way save the badly painted, soot-stained sign that adorned the office entrance; Goldeneye Shipping Company Ltd.
“Are you sure about this?” Peng Te-huai asked; the Chinese policeman had refused all offers of equipment, content with the little Luger he used in regular service.
The Inspector nodded. “It’s the only candidate”, he rasped, lighting a new cigarette, “and do you have any other leads?”
It hadn’t taken them long to find the place once they knew what they were looking for. The Goldeneye Shipping Company had been registered in the name of a man with known triad connections a few months earlier, around the same time as Fleming’s arrival in Shanghai; a bewildered informant had been roused from a drunken stupor to relate that the place saw no activity at all, save a single weekly delivery, taking place at night. The last one of these had taken place three days earlier.
The Inspector approached the door, pulling his Colt from its holster. “Ready?” he growled; the others nodded. He tried the handle, finding it unlocked, to his surprise. “We may have occupation,” he hissed, “So we’ll go in quiet.”
The door opened, mercifully without squeaking hinges, into a low hallway. Pointing, the Inspector sent Williams and some of his men up the stairs to the office; he and Peng moved forward into the main storage area. It was mostly empty, save for stack of boxes in the centre. The two men moved to examine them more closely; they were wooden, sturdily built, quite large but entirely featureless with no clue as to their contents.
“Coffins?” Peng asked. The Inspector sucked on his cigarette.
“They’d certainly fit a man. Shall we open one?”
A slightly slurred voice came from behind them. “If you do, you’ll be causing a serious diplomatic incident.”
The two policemen whirled round; Fleming was standing in the doorway pointing a pistol- a Walther, the Inspector noticed- at them. He was flushed and swaying slightly, but the gun never wavered.
“You can drop the guns too, by the way.”
The two men carefully placed their pistols on the floor. “Fleming? How are you still standing?”
The Englishman ignored the question, jerking his gun to the left. “You will get away from those boxes immediately.” He giggled. “In fact, I expect a full apology, Inspector, in writing; you’re tampering with the Diplomatic Bag. If you’re lucky, the Commissioner might let you keep your job.”
He paused, looking at Peng. “I know him, but who are you?” he demanded. Peng returned the gaze, contemptuously.
“Inspector Peng Te-huai, Jiangsu Police, Commander Fleming. I’ve been pursuing your friend Lao Ché.”
Fleming cocked his head. “What a stroke of luck! Lao’s been after you for a while. You do realise what indignities he would inflict on you, were he to catch you?”
Peng laughed. “It’s over, Fleming. Do you expect me to be intimidated?”
Fleming shrugged. “No, I expect you to die.”
He fired, once; Peng jerked backwards, gasping, clutching his chest. Fleming barked a laugh that turned halfway into a hiccup, dropped his gun to the floor and casually raised his hands. “Now that’s done I surrender, old cock,” he said, swaying slightly.
The Inspector scrabbled for his gun and raised it, checking Peng’s pulse with his other hand. He cursed and stood, looking the other man in the eye. Suddenly the empty warehouse was full of shouting as the other members of the raiding team streamed in, drawn by the shot. It didn't matter now; he knew that the time for fighting was over.
“Commander Fleming, I'm arresting you on two counts of murder.”
The Englishman sniggered. “What, the chink? There's a war on. That’s military action, not murder. Who’s the other?”
The Inspector’s hand tightened on his pistol. “You damn well know the other. The Belgian boy who discovered the scam you were running. I bet, when we dig the bullets out of him, that they’ll come from a Walther like yours.” He indicated the boxes. “He found out about the drugs, didn’t he?”
Fleming pursed his lips. “Foolish lad. You can’t blame me there; I offered him a truly extortionate amount of cash to keep quiet, but he wouldn’t take it. Bloody do-gooder.”
The Inspector grimaced, trying to keep his eyes on the Englishman and not glance down at the corpse beside him. “I bet there’s enough opium in there to supply half of the Yangtze basin.”
“Opium?” Fleming began to laugh. “This is the 1930s Inspector, not the 1830s! Do I look like an East Indiaman? The principle is the same I’ll grant you, but the methods have moved on. No, far more efficient to provide Lao Ché with the concentrated stuff- every chest contains 66 pounds of pure heroin. A bargain at the price.”
The remark brought a bitter laugh. “A pretty low price, Fleming; but I suppose a man’s got to cover his gambling debts somehow. You might have pull in Shanghai, but your Foreign Office won't view you as kindly.”
To the Inspector’s surprise, the Englishman began to laugh- not mockingly, but in genuine, bewildered astonishment.
“I’m not a freelancer, you bloody idiot,” he said, once recovered, “what the hell do you take me for? This is an official operation! The drugs come in from Singapore in the diplomatic bag; we grow tonnes of the stuff in Bengal and Bihar to help the war effort. Lao Ché doesn’t give me a penny! The price isn’t cash; it’s warm bodies.”
He studied the Inspector’s surprised expression. “Don’t you see? There’s a war on! The Tongs practically run the internment camps; for every chest of heroin that goes in, we get a prisoner of war smuggled out. It’s an underground railroad, inspector, and I’m just the middleman; although,” he thrust his chest out, preening, “I did come up with the idea. Operation Goldeneye has been a great success; and it'll take more than your meddling to put it out of commission.”
The Inspector struggled to contain his anger. “It doesn’t matter, Fleming. I don’t care. You’ve goddamn blood on your hands. You’re going down for this. I’ll make sure of it.”
Fleming shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere, Inspector. What do you have? Your testimony? That’s it. The boxes are consular property and so inadmissible, and Commissioner Dawson is formerly of the Metropolitan Police. His priorities are in line with my own. And even if I do get prosecuted, over the wishes of the Commissioner, what then? Who cares about some chink policeman? You bloody Yanks might be neutral, but we’re at war with them, remember? This is Shanghai, and I have extraterritorial rights. I’ll be tried by a Consular Court, and my own people aren’t going to convict me, are they? I’m more likely to get a medal for eliminating the only threat to the Chinese side of the operation.”
He grinned again, smugly. “Seems to me that the worst outcome would be me having a nice furlough in Singapore or Calcutta until the whole mess dies down. I doubt even that- I’ll have plenty more opportunities to play cards in the Blue Lotus yet.”
Fleming knelt to pick up his pistol. Nobody moved to stop him. “I’ll be going then. You can let yourself out.” He turned and called over his shoulder as he walked; “And I meant it about the apology letter, Inspector. On my desk by Midday please.”
The Inspector watched the Englishman go, then glanced down at the body of Peng. Slowly, with a shaking hand, he raised his pistol at Fleming’s back; then sighing, he lowered it again. “Goddamn, spies” he breathed, and turned away, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands.
The brawny arm of Sergeant Williams clasped him on the shoulder, offering comfort. “Forget it Bogey,” the Welshman said kindly, “It’s Shanghai."